As we stepped out into the crisp Wisconsin winter night, Grandma said, “It’s a beautiful night, Arthur.” But Arthur isn’t my name, and this baffled me — even scared me a little. Something was happening that my early teen mind didn’t understand. Sometimes adults in the family say the right thing but at the wrong time. Or the wrong thing at exactly the right moment. Or nothing when you would expect them to say something.

It doesn’t matter so much how nimble our tongue when our heart is in the right place. What we say may not be as important as why we say whatever it is we do say. If they know we love them and care about them, they’ll understand, at least eventually.

Arthur was my grandfather’s name. I began to worry about Grandma’s mental condition, that she should imagine I was her deceased husband. Or, was she consciously pretending I was this man who had walked her securely through nights for so many years, as my mother had asked me to do this night? Yet, my name is Arthur. At least my middle name is, because my mother had named me after her father. So, was Grandma saying, “Be Arthur to me tonight?” Live up to your name.

She took my arm, and we walked the several blocks to the upper flat where she lived alone. I don’t think I said a word, because there were none. This was not a time to talk. But I felt grown-up. Grandma had done this for me.

A few years later it was my father who made an awkward remark, which I didn’t think he intended. I had come home on liberty from Great Lakes Naval Station and went to the Boy Scout event where I knew he would be working. He was with several men with whom he, himself my scoutmaster, had worked for many years in scouting. He introduced me, “This is my ‘pride and joy.’”

Dad never talked this way. He was always careful about what he said and how he said it. He was more given to understatement than hype or exaggeration. I was terribly embarrassed, but he seemed to take it in stride. I was certain even then he hadn’t meant to say this. It just popped out.

Yet, it had to have been in his mind in order to pop out. He did, in fact, consider me something like his “pride and joy.” It was quite enough that he thought it, but did he have to say it? He might have wondered that, too, but I now know he did. I still cherish it sixty-three years later.

Much later, our daughter skipped home from grade school and cheerily said, “You know what, Daddy?” Then she told me of this boy who kept hitting her and in other ways teased her. She intuited he “likes me,” and it excited her with early romance. I was greatly amused but restrained a laugh and hid my chuckle. Years later she told me she had been praying, “Please, Lord, don’t let him laugh!” (Just occasionally, I do the right thing by shutting up.)

During the time I had to repeat my name often on radio, I simplified it by dropping my middle name, When I do hear it, it takes me back to a winter night a long time ago.

We ought to work hard to find the right thing to say and think carefully to recognize the right time to say it. Sometimes it doesn’t work that way. We are bound, at some point, to say exactly the wrong thing at precisely the wrong moment. This may hurt the one we love quite deeply. Yet, if we have convinced them of our love, they’ll get over it. All we need to say is “I’m sorry,” and they’ll reply, “I know.”

None of us is smart enough always to say the right thing at the right time. Just keep loving and keep caring. Don’t even try to be impressively eloquent or irritatingly logical. Just be natural and honest. This is always needed, but occasionally the right thing at the wrong time or the wrong thing at the right time is — beyond our comprehension — the immediate need. Sometimes it might be no more than dumb luck or serendipity. If our heart is in the right place, it is likely to be God’s grace.